


Dangerous Girls

by zemph147



Series: Dangerous Girls [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Bisexual Mary, Bisexuality, Consensual Infidelity, Cunnilingus, F/F, Face-Sitting, Fem!Sherlock, Femlock, Gender or Sex Swap, Girl Sherlock, Kinda, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sherlock, Multi, Pining, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/F/M, UST, Voyeurism, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2034903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zemph147/pseuds/zemph147
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a girl. John likes Sherlock. Sherlock likes girls. Sherlock likes Mary. They work something out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *looks at unfinished fics from two years ago* *weeps* *runs and hides*
> 
> And now for something completely different!  
> Unbeta'd, unbrit-picked, probably has run-on sentence problems, and maybe some tense problems, and hopefully no pronoun problems, but if you see them, please point them out! Sherlock's sexuality here is undefined, but she basically exclusively likes girls, and that's not changing, not even for John, because lesbians that go straight for the perfect man is a stupid trope. Most likely terribly OOC, because I can't write Sherlock's POV to save my life. 
> 
> Edit for the second chapter: I added Sherlock/John in the tags, because there's a moment of it, but they still don't have sex, so if you're looking for Sherlock/John sexy times, you are in the wrong place, friendo.

Sex with men is not Sherlock's area. Sex with women really isn't her area either, but it's something she has dabbled in at certain points in her life. She loves the savagery of men, the way they splatter each other across the city, the way they strive to break the world like it is a toy and they are nothing but spoiled children. She loves the way she can dissect a man's mind into motive, trigger, and weakness. She loves breaking men, far more than she has ever enjoyed ruining a woman, though guilty is guilty, and any solved riddle is worth its moment's rush of satisfaction.

But the thought of engaging in sexual activity with a man sends a shiver of repulsion through her. Their clumsy, beastly nature that makes them excellent prey in a game of detectives and criminals ruins any possibility of arousal in the bedroom. A lifetime of them pawing at her, salivating over her, sloppy in their advances and mistaken in their confidences, has set a strong marker of distaste in her mind. Even the handful of half-decent men she knows inspire little more than a heartbeat of fondness, blooming and fading all in a tick, as she analyzes the grand index of ulterior motives they could have for showing her kindness.

Sherlock loves men for the mysteries they construct out of the mess of their lives, but finds no mystery in the men themselves, and thus, spares them little interest.

And then she meets John Watson.

Sherlock isn't even certain she wants to solve the puzzle of John Watson, for having it to pull apart and rearrange in quiet moments is proving to be quite delightful. Upsetting, certainly, as it violates everything she has ever suspected about her sexuality. But a puzzle nonetheless, a puzzle with a final picture that seems to change every day.

Sherlock cares for John, that much seems certain. It's a warm, wet sensation in her chest, and she feels it most when he is excruciatingly human. When he stubs his toe, or spills his tea, or yells at her about biological waste in food spaces. The lines of his face when he is angry, the bags under his eyes when he is tired. She wants to press her hands all over his face, learn the exact depth of the crevices she is certain she has created over their years of cohabitation.

Sometimes she pictures John naked. The results are lackluster. She considers that actually seeing him naked, perhaps touching him intimately, might produce more compelling results. She doubts it, though. John is a man, and though he is the most interesting, compassionate, brave man she has ever known, he is still a man. She thinks about his cock, getting hard. She thinks about it inside her and feels unnerved. This is mildly disappointing.

It is possible that Sherlock loves John. Hell, she could even be in love with him, though she is not certain she knows the difference. It doesn't change his body, or her sexuality. Which is almost a pity.

John is attracted to Sherlock. This is a fact. 

He stands too far away from her, for one. He holds her gaze, then deliberately doesn't. When she asks him to fetch her phone from her pocket, he looks like she's asked him if she can sit on his face. His touches, when he can't avoid them, are brief and guilty. She wonders if he allows himself to think of her while he wanks, or if that is too much admission. They are flatmates. They are most likely friends, or some perverse version of friendship that passes as an acceptable human relationship to the outside world. John knows the limits of that, and skirts ten miles wider.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks when they meet, over candlelight, and immediately looks like he wishes he could shove the words back into his mouth.

“Not really my area,” Sherlock says. She liked John, even then, and she very much needed a flatmate. 

“A girlfriend, then?”

And she'd looked at him, really considered what she wanted him to believe, and said,

“I'm married to my work.”

John had taken it to heart. It was, and still is, for the best.

But when she is bloody and sore and cut to ribbons, when he sits her on the sofa and methodically puts her back together, when he smooths the plasters across her skin, and picks tiny slivers of glass from ugly gashes, when he palpates her for broken ribs and she tries desperately not to reveal her ticklish nature, when he cleans the messes and heals the wounds and looks at her like he knows for sure she is a wild thing he will never, ever tame—

—those are the moments she wishes she could give everything to John. She will never be able to, not really, not in the honest, raw way he would consider acceptable. And in the quiet times, when she tugs and smashes at the puzzle of John Watson, that inability sends a spike of misery through her heart.

 

Sherlock dies and is reborn. She is prepared for her own changes, the new scars on her body, her need for better boots, a better mattress, more sleep and more food. She thinks everything else will be the same. It's foolish and narcissistic, and she berates herself for the flaw in her foresight for months to come. She should have known, and yet never suspected, did not anticipate. She is so completely and utterly unprepared for the repercussions of her absence, that she cannot help but bear the consequences, uncomfortable and gnarled across her shoulders.

John is in love with another woman. John wants to get married to another woman. The other woman is small and blond. The other woman has an odd danger under her skin that Sherlock cannot place. The other woman smiles like sunshine, and laughs when John cringes, and teases Sherlock in a way that John could never, because it's so close to flirting, and Sherlock is so, so unbelievably fucked that it almost makes her sick.

Sherlock is attracted to Mary. Uncomfortably, savagely, heart-breakingly attracted to her.

John hugs Sherlock the first time he sees her after she's come back from the dead. Then he slaps her, apologizes feverishly, calls her a heartless cunt, and hugs her again. Those hugs break some kind of barrier than had existed before, and John hugs her casually now. When he comes over, as greeting. When he leaves, as goodbye. And Sherlock is suddenly miserable for all the guilty touches John had given her before, because those hugs make Sherlock feel like an insect waiting to be stomped on, especially when Mary is there, waiting to give Sherlock a peck on the cheek, like everything about this is normal.

Sherlock has put John through many terrifically upsetting ordeals, including her own death, and she has only a pittance of guilt to sprinkle across all of them. But this hunger for Mary, when she could find none for John, this is a betrayal that poisons her.

So, of course, she says nothing. She pretends the best she can, which is quite well, and accepts the gnawing as punishment for her untimely resurrection.

Unfortunately, Sherlock is attracted to Mary for a reason, and the whole thing goes to shit.

 

“Can I ask you something personal, Sherlock?” Mary asks. They are in the kitchen at 221B together. Sherlock is looking through a microscope, but not really seeing anything, because she is in close proximity to Mary, and Mary is washing dishes from the dinner they had brought over, and probably tackling some from yesterday's unsuccessful spleen experiments, because Mary understands that meat is meat, and the kitchen is an acceptable place for it. John is in the living room, “giving them space,” because he wants them to be friends. The horrid irony of his request makes Sherlock's stomach sour.

“You can ask,” Sherlock says. She just won't answer.

“Do you identify as a lesbian?”

Sherlock bumps one of the knobs on the microscope, and the slide goes blurry. With a violent twist, she turns it until the lens splinters the slide, ruining her sample. She wants it to make a sound, wants there to be a tick of satisfaction in a tiny destruction, but instead there is only the slither of wet sample and the spiny sensation of impending ruin.

“No,” Sherlock says. “I don't identify as anything.”

“But your attraction is primarily towards women.”

Sherlock swallows and sits up. Mary's back is to her, still washing the dishes, like they're talking about the weather.

“My attraction is primarily towards unsolved crimes,” Sherlock says. Mary laughs, and warmth blooms in Sherlock's chest, because she made Mary laugh. She wants to do it again.

“I guess I have known more than a few women I would classify as mysteries,” Mary says. “We do have a knack for secrets.”

“Social conditioning,” Sherlock says.

“Doesn't change all the things we're hiding.” The water shuts off. Mary turns around, drying her hands on a wash cloth. There is about three feet between her and the stool Sherlock is perched on. Sherlock spins halfway, but not all the way, because then she could spread her legs and draw Mary between them with remarkable ease. 

“I don't like people,” Sherlock says.

“But you like girls,” Mary says, grinning like they have a private joke.

“Yes,” Sherlock says very softly, before she can stop herself.

“Dangerous girls, I bet. Girls who kill their daddies for money, or steal their boyfriend's motorcycles in a skirt and no knickers. Girls with stilettos that could carve out a man's eye.” Mary is nearly whispering, but otherwise might be reciting a grocery list. Sherlock's mind trips and fumbles.

“It's okay,” Mary says with a bright smile. “Me too.”

Sherlock is thankful she does not spontaneously combust, because what an embarrassing call to Scotland Yard. Please come collect what remains of Sherlock Holmes, she has turned to ashes with desire.

“Obviously my preferences are varied,” Mary says, tossing the wash cloth over her shoulder, where it lands perfectly on the counter top she has just cleared. “But, yeah, nothing quite like a girl with a gun, eh?”

Sherlock glances into the living room, where their boy with a gun is reading the paper, oblivious. 

“You all right?” Mary asks. She puts her hand on Sherlock's forehead, and then goes to cup Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock meets her eyes, but cannot find words, and does not trust any movement, as they all bring her closer to Mary. Instead, she blinks, and attempts to close her mouth.

“It's okay,” Mary says, smiling softly. “I know, and it's okay.”

Sherlock blinks again.

“I'm not John. You can't fool me. I see how you look at me,” Mary says, never ceasing her warm, kind, gentle smile. “It's quite the look.”

Sherlock's gaze drops to Mary's mouth, just for a moment, before she squeezes her eyes shut. Never has she betrayed herself so blatantly, so sloppily. 

“Hey. Hey there.” Mary grabs Sherlock's chin and shakes her ever so slightly. “I said it was okay. I quite fancy it, really. Honestly, the way you look at me, and the way he looks at you, we might be able to work something out.”

“I don't—“ Sherlock sputters, pushing Mary's hand away so she can have her mind back. “I can't—I've never, with a man, and I care for John very deeply, but I don't desire men, I never have.”

“Oh, shush,” Mary says, laughter in her voice. “I said we might work something out, not that he should put his cock in you. Really, I'd rather he didn't.”

Sherlock is taken aback by Mary's vulgarity, which makes Mary laugh properly. Sherlock can't help her own twitch of a grin, she can't help but adore Mary's deviance. 

“I'll talk to him,” Mary says. “Very vaguely. He'll never know about your little crush. I'll make it about compatible sexualities and unconventional relationships, and the best way for us all to be together. He'll go for it because he wants you worse than any glossy big-titted goddess in a magazine, and you'll go for it because you're a hedonist with your first sexual desire in, I'm guessing a decade?”

“And you?” Sherlock says.

Mary shrugs. “Doesn't it sound like fun?”

It sounds like a dangerous game with no winners. It sounds exactly like fun.

 

Sherlock and John are at lunch in a very private corner of a very private cafe. John can't stop giggling, but it's awkward, humiliated laughter. His face is bright, shiny red, like someone has been smacking him around, like he might not have the blood to spare for the endeavor they are discussing.

“I mean, I'm a red-blooded male,” he says. “I'd be mad to say no, yeah?”

Sherlock, despite herself, is amused by John's discomfort.

“Are you aroused by lesbian sexual activity, John?” Sherlock says slowly.

John chokes on his laugh, then chokes on his water.

“I suppose, I mean, in pornography.” He looks at his plate, then the ceiling. “I'm sorry, what a terrible thing to say. To even think. Of course, that's performative, that's for men, it's not real. So, I suppose, I'm not sure. In theory. I can't imagine I'd object, in the moment. I certainly wouldn't be repulsed.”

“Your fiance would be touching another person in an intimate fashion.”

“Touching you,” John says. He twists his napkin. “Are you sure you don't want a bottle of wine? I could really use an entire bottle of wine.” There is that sharp, uncomfortable laugh.

“I want you to be sober while we discuss this, because I want things to be clear. Once there is nudity, lines get blurred, and chemicals override. There are rules to this, and we must set them together and comprehend them fully.”

“Yes,” John says. “Yes, of course.” He finishes his water. “I can't believe Mary. What a mad, mad idea. What a mad, mad woman.”

“She wants everything to be okay,” Sherlock says.

“Not sure this is the way to go about it,” John says. 

“It could lay the groundwork to some sort of future long term arrangement,” Sherlock says, and it feels like a lie as she says it, though perhaps it isn't. 

“Or it could be a royal catastrophe,” John says.

“We've gotten through worse.”

“Nobody will jump off a building over it.”

“I'm not that sexually incompetent,” Sherlock says.

And John, the John she loves, her wonderful, brilliant John, laughs.

 

John and Mary do bring a bottle of wine when they come over to 221B for the event itself. 221B because there is a bedroom in it that belongs to none of them, but still feels like home. It doesn't have any of John's belongings in it anymore, so Sherlock does not think of it as John's bedroom, though John sometimes slips up and refers to it that way. It's a nice thought, that they would use the bedroom.

They don't.

Mary pours three very large glasses of cheap red wine, and they all drink them too fast.

“So, the ground rules. One more time,” Mary says. “Sherlock, you can touch me, anyway you'd like.” Just those words make Sherlock warm all over, far more than the wine. “And I will touch you however you'd like me to. John and I can touch each other, of course, but John won't touch you, Sherlock, not unless you explicitly ask for it, and you don't have to touch him. And John won't feel sad about not being touched by you, because he's a good sport.”

Sherlock is in her chair, and John is in his chair, and Mary is perched on the arm of John's chair like she might perch on the edge of a grand piano. She's wearing a flowing, short summer dress that clings just right around her hips. Sherlock swallows. Mary pats John's knee, and John smiles at her, and then at Sherlock, like being a good sport is his ultimate goal in life, and he's just achieved it. 

“I don't want it to be a show,” Sherlock says. She is doing everything she can to hide how nervous she is, and John is buying it entirely, and Mary sees right through her like a piece of glass. It makes Sherlock more aroused than she's been in years. Maybe ever.

Mary smiles. “It won't be,” she says. “It's not about him.” She stands and walks over to Sherlock with the grace and confidence of an assassin. “It's about you.”

Mary slips the straps of her dress from her shoulders, and just like that, it pools to the floor. Sherlock is wet, and painfully overdressed in her standard trousers and dress-shirt. Mary's black lace lingerie flatters her pale skin. She's not the lithe, bendy rugby girls Sherlock bed in University, and she lacks the skin and bones of a junkie hookup, but Sherlock has never felt a stronger urge to touch than she does right in this moment. Unfortunately, she cannot find the power to move, not to undress, not to seize Mary and drag her down into the pit of desire that Sherlock is sweltering in. But then, she doesn't have to.

Lovely, incandescent, serpent of a woman, Mary, crawls into Sherlock's lap.

They're kissing before Sherlock can focus on anything else. Mary's fingers tangle in Sherlock's short hair, and Sherlock manages to free her own hands from their white-knuckle grip on the arms of the chair and grasp at Mary's lace-clad hips.

Somewhere in the distance, John groans, but Mary is right, this isn't a show, because Sherlock couldn't give two fucks what John thinks. Sherlock doesn't care about anything that's not Mary's tongue, flicking against Sherlock's lips. She kisses like she's as hungry as Sherlock, like they're both starved for this, and it fuels Sherlock into motion, caressing Mary's back, cupping her neck, tracing the edges of her bra, until Mary whines and pulls back for a moment, reaching around to undo her own bra. 

Sherlock realizes she could have done that, but for all the great power of her mind, Mary is stupefying her. Any shame is obliterated by the fact that Mary's tits are now very close to Sherlock's face, and Sherlock's desire to put her mouth on them overrides everything left of her sanity. They are modest and firm, and her nipples are pink and hard, and the sound Mary makes when Sherlock mouths over the right one, sucking and licking and kissing and running the edge of her teeth over the lines of the areola , that noise decimates Sherlock.

Then Mary is kissing Sherlock again, raw and on the edge of sloppy, more nipping now, and Sherlock's cunt is slick and pulsing, and she is still wearing all of her clothes, why is she still wearing all of her clothes? But Mary is working the buttons of her shirt while sucking on Sherlock's neck, a fantastic multitasker, obviously far more in control right now than Sherlock, who may never recover. Sherlock isn't wearing a bra, and for that she is glad. Once her shirt is open, Mary sits back a moment to admire what she has uncovered, run her fingertips over Sherlock's tits. Sherlock surges forward to wrench herself out of the shirt, and laves her tongue across Mary's breasts, uncoordinated, but still somewhat effective, as Mary clutches Sherlock's head, and grinds her hips down across Sherlock's groin.

Mary slides to the floor, and Sherlock tries to chase her there, but Mary pushes Sherlock back into the chair. She works the clasp of Sherlock's trousers, and Sherlock lifts her hips so that Mary can pull them off, her ravaging gaze never leaving Sherlock's face. Sherlock is wearing the only pair of knickers she owns that is not just simple black, but Mary does not appear to notice the purple silk, nearly ripping them as she drags them off Sherlock's legs. She mouths from Sherlock's knee, up to the edge of Sherlock's pubic hair, licking the crease between Sherlock's thigh and torso. Sherlock groans like she's been punched in the gut, her hands back to their iron grip on the arms of the chair.

Mary seizes one of those hands and places it on top of her own head. Sherlock pants, and Mary grins up at her, panting.

“Can I?” Mary says, the first words that have been spoken in what feels like forever. Sherlock can't do anything but nod.

For all their fever, Mary starts slow. Long, lavish licks along the edges of Sherlock's outer lips, gentle kissing and sucking of the labia, a taste inside Sherlock, just a flick that set's Sherlock on fire. She grips in Mary's hair, both hands, trying everything she has left not to pull her hair or shove her face into Sherlock's cunt. But just as Mary's warming is about to become teasing, she flickers her tongue across Sherlock's clit, a flutter like a butterfly's wing, that turns to a pulse, until Mary's mouth is flush with Sherlock's cunt, and she is eating her properly, sloppily, gloriously, moaning like Sherlock is delicious, sucking and slurping like she will never get enough. Sherlock arches off the chair, and Mary's hands grip around her thighs, forcing her back down. They wrestle like that, Mary fighting the electrical current of pleasure she is pumping through Sherlock's body, keeping her mouth and her tongue on Sherlock like she is underwater and breathing through Sherlock's cunt.

Sherlock's orgasm comes on quickly, and bursts through her like a bundle of dynamite in a burning warehouse. She can't hear herself, she can't hear anything, but she might scream, because her throat vibrates, and there is a breathy pulse of gentle laughter from Mary, where she is still centimeters from Sherlock's clit. Sherlock's body spasms and shakes. Mary pets her thighs and stomach, calms her, caresses her, until Sherlock can breathe again. Sherlock wants to kiss Mary, desperately, but the moment Sherlock opens her eyes, Mary licks deliberately over her clit again, and Sherlock flinches and groans and sinks lower in the chair, hooking her legs over Mary's shoulders. Mary just laughs, and Sherlock laughs in return, stupid, flying, scorching.

Mary coaxes her second orgasm from her slower, biting the insides of her thighs, shoving her tongue inside Sherlock, burying her nose in Sherlock's pubic hair like the smell of Sherlock is addictive. Then, once Sherlock is begging for it, clawing at Mary's hair and pulling on her ears, Mary sneaks and teases and flirts until she can rip climax from Sherlock like a starving animal might tear the insides from its prey. Sherlock departs from reality.

When she comes back, Mary has pulled her to the floor. They are tangled, and Mary is beaming, her chest and neck splotchy with red arousal. Sherlock kisses every blazing spot, kisses Mary's swollen lips, sucks herself off Mary's tongue, licks herself off Mary's face, which makes Mary giggle, and Sherlock swallows the giggle out of Mary's mouth, clinging to her like a life raft in the open ocean.

She's pawing uselessly at the black lace knickers that Mary's still wearing, though they are soaking. Mary pushes Sherlock to the floor, and Sherlock lays back and watches as Mary pushes at them until they are off, which takes a moment, as Mary is on her knees, and they're laughing about the fumbling, until the knickers are off, and Sherlock seizes them and brings them to her face, smelling them, sucking them into her mouth and tasting Mary on them. Mary rips them away, and a spike of fear goes through Sherlock, that she has done something wrong, but then Mary is straddling her, crawling up her body.

Mary puts a knee on either side of Sherlock's head. The smell of her is everywhere, earthy and briny and magnificent, and her pubic hair is trimmed short and neatly waxed, which Sherlock couldn't care less about, except it means Mary is nearly dripping onto Sherlock's face. She can barely see Mary's face, but whatever the reason, Mary's hesitation is useless. Sherlock grips Mary's hips and pulls her down, until Sherlock's whole world is Mary's cunt, and everything is exquisite. Sherlock sucks her and eats her until Mary is so wet that trickles of it are running down Sherlock's neck, and into her ears, and up her face, sticking in her eyelashes. Sherlock holds Mary in place mercilessly as Mary writhes, and makes sounds like she is broken, and comes apart, arching back and then falling forward, panting and giggling and swearing.

Sherlock is ready to keep going, but Mary pulls off of her and crawls so she can kiss her and wipe up the mess she has made of Sherlock's face.

“Oh Christ,” she says, her face flush and bright. “It's all in your hair.”

“Good,” Sherlock says, and kisses her, and kisses her, and kisses her. 

John clears his throat. Sherlock had forgotten he was there.

Mary pulls back, glances at him, and laughs.

“Had a good time over there?” she says.

John is redder than Sherlock has ever seen him. He's still fully dressed, except for his cock, which is out, half-hard in his hand, and covered in semen. Mary kisses Sherlock one last time, and then crawls to John. She kisses him on the mouth, and John groans, probably at the taste of Sherlock still there, Sherlock realizes, and then drops, licking the still slick semen from his cock.

“Jesus,” John says, and then pulls her away. “Believe me, if I could come a second time, I would have done it already.”

He looks at Sherlock, and though he looks as embarrassed and bashful as a man can get, he doesn't look guilty. And somehow, that snuffs the flicker of guilt that had lit itself in Sherlock's chest the moment she remembered John. She can barely manage any of his embarrassment. Mostly, she feels good. Sated. Tired.

John and Mary get dressed. Sherlock can't be bothered, but she does get off the floor and finds the wine bottle, which is nearly empty, but has enough for Sherlock to take several good swigs. 

“You okay?” Mary asks. Sherlock nods. Her brain is strangely, miraculously silent. She does kiss Mary though. She wants to kiss Mary forever.

“I wish we could stay and have a slumber party,” Mary says softly. “But I think that's for another time.” She wants to go home and talk to John and make sure they are going to be okay. That's fine. Sherlock wants to sleep for a thousand hours, and doesn't care who's there. 

At the door, Mary kisses Sherlock goodbye, and Sherlock is overly indulgent with her use of tongue. Then there's John. Still pink. Shuffling awkwardly. He wants his hug, Sherlock realizes, but Sherlock is still naked. Sherlock doesn't care. She laughs at how much she doesn't care, and hugs John anyway. Mary smiles at Sherlock over John's shoulder. John can't figure out where to put his hands, but he ends with a soft pat on Sherlock's bare back.

And then, as he pulls back, he kisses Sherlock. Briefly, chastely, on the mouth.

“Sorry,” John says, looking at his shoes. But it wasn't terrible. Sherlock kisses him back, on the mouth. Not like she kisses Mary, but more than she'd kiss a friend, if she had another friend besides John. Close-mouthed, but relaxed. A thank you. An I love you.

John swallows hard, and looks at the floor, then at Mary, then at Sherlock with a very small smile. In a moment of panic, Sherlock can't tell if it's a smile of love and thankfulness, or a smile of hope, because the whole thing would be wasted, just garbage, if she had given John hope. Because as much as she loves him, she still wants nothing to do with his cock that isn't being in the same room with it. But then John smiles a little larger, a little softer, and it's the smile for when Sherlock is brilliant and solves cases and does the right thing, and it warms Sherlock all over.

They wave goodbye. Sherlock shuts the door behind them and rests against it. She debates a bath, as she is slick all down her thighs, but instead just crawls into bed, wrapping herself in the blankets, keeping the warmth of them on her skin tight against her, like it is the world's most precious treasure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It works until it doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha idek.
> 
> I'm not sure if bridal garters and the traditions that go with them are a British thing or just an American thing, so sorry if that is a big cultural whoopsie. Moriarty, in her brief mention, is also a girl. Still unbeta'd and unbritpicked, might have a bunch of grammar problems. The only thing I truly worry about is slipping up and using a he/him pronounces for this very much a girl Sherlock (habits, you know), so if you spot that, let me know. Otherwise it stands as it is. This is probably the last chapter.
> 
> ETA: there is no pregnancy in this fic because it's a stupid storyline.

Sherlock knows she is blind when it comes to Mary. She knows it, and she still stumbles along, feeling the curve of Mary's neck and the bumps of her spine like the walls of a labyrinth, hoping there is not a monster waiting in the center. And there shouldn't be, because John is there, holding her hand, checking the moral compass and then confirming their righteous path in the stars. Attraction poisons Sherlock's mind, but John is a doctor. John would never love something toxic.

Sherlock knows this, because of Jane Moriarty. Because one look at Moriarty, and Sherlock had craved, and one look at John, and that craving had wilted like a rose in a drought. Sherlock wanted Moriarty's clit under her tongue while Moriarty's gun pressed against her forehead, but John's eyebrows had said Not Good, and that was all Sherlock needed to package up her desire and ship it to the far corners of her mind palace, where the snow falls heavy and the sun only comes out once a year, casting a stark light on the ever increasing piles of Sherlock's Not Good thoughts.

But nothing about their arrangement with Mary ever flags John's Not Good look. In fact, Sherlock has several brand new Very Good looks for her encyclopedia of John's facial expressions, which she tucks away close to her heart. Nothing in this world is more radiant than John's bliss. Sherlock puts all her trust in the creases of his smile, the beloved one, the one he gets when he looks at her a heartbeat too long. If only she could shrink herself down and curl in those creases, a permanent home for her in John Watson's happiness.

Unfortunately, happiness is the least trustworthy thing in the world, and to put all her trust in a smile turns out to be a nearly fatal mistake.

 

The one time Sherlock and Mary have sex without John, Sherlock fucks Mary in her wedding dress. It's before the wedding, not after. After, Sherlock leaves early, because watching them stare lovingly at each other and nothing else is making her mildly ill. But before, everything still seems laughable and floral, like they're going through the motions of the ritual for ritual's sake, for the costumes and the rites and the horrible pastels, not for undying love and sap and sentiment. It's a bit like a game, so much so that it's hardly a surprise when there's nearly a murder later on. 

Sherlock is John's “best lady,” a term she hates. She puts on several dresses before rejecting the bone-deep crawling sensation they give her, and ends up insisting on a suit, almost identical to John's, which nobody has objected to, at least not yet. She puts gel in her hair in an attempt to control it, but instead just makes it unattractively wet, and she's wearing the same shade of lipstick she used to wear when she was 15 and obsessed with death. It's too dark for her pale skin, but she doubts anybody will object to that either, at least not to her face.

“Can you go check on Mary?” John asks, about an hour before the ceremony. They're all out at the estate, mostly dressed, ties still limp around their necks. “I'm worried—“ He laughs. “Well, not that there's anything to worry about, really.”

“Doesn't she have bridal attendants for that sort of thing?” Sherlock says, frowning at her hair in the mirror. 

“Yeah, but Mary's hardly close with any of them. Not one for close friends at all, I'm afraid. I just—she might find it comforting if you popped by. You're probably her best friend.”

This sits wrong in Sherlock stomach, because Sherlock is John's best friend, but she hasn't really contemplated exactly what Mary is to her. Beyond making Mary laugh and orgasm, Sherlock isn't sure what else they have. They don't go shopping together, or go out for drinks, or gossip about boys and celebrities. Not that Sherlock wants that, with Mary, or with anyone. Sherlock doesn't love Mary. Not like she loves John. But she supposes the alien twist in her chest she feels when Mary watches her is some form of caring. Or anticipation. Or warning. It really is a very strange twist, and it makes Sherlock uncomfortable that she cannot decipher her own body's clues.

“Just go make sure she's not weeping with regret, all right?” John says. 

Sherlock scoffs, and John gives her a look, so Sherlock goes.

Mary is indeed surrounded by bridal attendants. Everything and everyone is swathed in lilac, except for Mary, who is wrapped in a white lace dress that Sherlock immediately wants to peel off of her. She can't, of course, because Mary has put on that dress to get married in it, and because there are four women all bustling and cooing and giggling at Sherlock in the suit. 

The maid of honor, Jennie or Janine or something, looks Sherlock over with the subtly of a heard of elephants, and then smiles slowly. She's pretty enough, the kind of girl who parades her heterosexuality around right up until she's got her mouth on your tits, but Sherlock looks at her for thirty seconds and knows everything there is to know about her. Sherlock looks at Mary, has looked at Mary a thousand times, has stripped her naked and tasted her everywhere, and still there is something about Mary that Sherlock cannot uncover. Something just under the skin. Something savage.

“Girls, would you mind giving me a moment with Sherlock?” Mary says. Her smile is sweet. Sherlock swallows. The girls, imbeciles, the whole lot of them, go “awww” and blather about friendship and what a special day it is. Sherlock is glad when they are gone from the dressing room, but then she is alone with Mary. Sherlock can't recall a time when she has ever been completely alone with Mary.

“John wanted me to make sure you weren't weeping,” Sherlock blurts. 

Mary laughs. “It's my wedding day. Why would I be weeping?”

“It's your wedding day,” Sherlock says. Mary laughs again, and it's like sunshine across Sherlock's skin, even though the room has no windows. 

Mary stands, dress falling long and elegant down her body. She comes over to Sherlock and grabs either end of Sherlock's loose tie. 

“You look rather smart,” Mary says. Sherlock blushes. Mary smudges a thumb across Sherlock's mouth. “Never seen you wear makeup before.”

“'s my battle armor,” Sherlock mumbles. 

Mary raises an eyebrow. “I'd hoped this wasn't a war for you.”

“It's not,” Sherlock says, looking down at her shoes, but catching a good peak at Mary's cleavage along the way. “But it still seems a bit dangerous, doesn't it?”

“A bit.” Mary reaches up pulls Sherlock's face down, but instead of something untoward, she merely kisses Sherlock on the forehead. Sherlock isn't sure what to do with that, so when Mary moves away, Sherlock doesn't follow.

“Do you know I spent over a hundred pounds on wedding lingerie?” Mary says, like they are friends. “A hundred pounds! You're supposed to get it all special, something that won't be visible under the dress, but is still fancy enough to be special for your wedding night. It's all silly, the whole thing. Spent nearly fifty pounds on bloody garters that hold up nothing but sexist traditions.”

Mary goes to the vanity table and picks up a flimsy piece of white lace, adorned with several fake flowers. She tosses it to Sherlock, and Sherlock catches it, examines it. It does seem like not much for fifty pounds.

“What does it do?” Sherlock asks. Mary smiles, a little incredulous. 

“You're one of those girls that doesn't give a toss about weddings, aren't you?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, still fondling the little piece of lace.

Mary picks up a matching one from the table. She hikes up her dress, revealing her pale legs, no stockings, and just a hint of said wedding knickers, delicate and begging to be ripped with Sherlock's teeth. She slides the lace circle up until it rests in the middle of her thigh, a tantalizing boundary between appropriate and deviant. Then she flops back in an oversized arm chair, dress pooling around her hips, and shoves her other leg out, foot pointed.

“Do me the honor?” Mary says, low and filthy. 

Sherlock kneels at Mary's feet. She slips the lace over Mary's toes, and then nips at the arch, noses along her ankle. Mary giggles and gasps. Sherlock follows the garter with her mouth, running her cheek over the kneecap and then licking the pit beneath, making Mary squirm. When the garter is as high as its partner, Sherlock stops, trailing her fingers along that lace line, the place she should absolutely stop, because it is Mary's wedding day.

Mary bends forward, her lips almost at Sherlock's ear.

“I wish you could come inside me,” she murmurs. “I wish I could have your climax, deep inside, and then spend the day feeling you drip out of me. Hugging all those family members and well-wishers, kissing my new husband at the altar while you are wet between my thighs.”

Sherlock can't speak. She's trembling, and it's awful and embarrassing, how a bit of dirty talk simply wrecks her. Mary pulls back, and Sherlock goes to kiss her. Mary stops it.

“You'll smear that all over my face,” she says, smiling at Sherlock's lipstick. “Why don't you put it where no one will see it?”

Sherlock leaves her lips prints where John will surely find them later, before sliding a towel between Mary and her dress. She has to slap her hand over Mary's mouth to prevent the bridesmaids from running back in searching for the person who sounds like they're dying.

It turns out Mary has locked the door, because Sherlock definitely does scream when Mary takes down her suit pants, bends her over the vanity, and fucks her with two fingers in her cunt and one rubbing perfect circle on her clit, and nobody seems to notice.

They clean up rather well, all things considered. John doesn't notice. He's mostly upset because they are ten minutes late to the ceremony and Sherlock's tie is still undone. 

Sherlock isn't sure if John ever knows, because then there's the speech, and the attempted murder, and the awful loving gazes. Then they go on a long sex holiday without Sherlock, and when they get back, Mary has soothed any doubts John might have about his own sexual desirability and prowess. Sherlock fears, very briefly, that their marriage is a closed one. It's a silly fear, and one that Mary quickly slays.

 

Sherlock has always been faster than John, but marriage has made him slower than ever. When the perpetrator of a double homicide leaps over a six foot chain link fence, Sherlock follows effortlessly and does not check to see that John has followed. The murderer pulls out his gun around the corner and fires several shots, but he's got terrible aim, and only one grazes Sherlock's leg. It's only after she's chased him nearly a mile, tackled him, taken his gun, shoved it in his mouth, and dialed Lestrade on her cellphone, that she realizes the trail of blood she's left behind.

She's in the living room at 221B, in her knickers, towel pressed against the bullet nick, when John storms in.

“Fuck you,” he spits. “I didn't know if you were dead or alive.”

“Ta-dah,” Sherlock says, rolling her eyes. Her head hurts. Lestrade had yelled at her for making a criminal pornographically felate a gun in front of uniformed officers. She wants several valium and a wank to shut down her brain, but instead she has to deal with more petty human emotions.

“You can't text? Hullo, not missing all that blood on the street, doing just fine, ta?”

“Until you're standing over my corpse, just assume I'm fine. It will save us both a lot of trouble.”

“Sherlock, I've stood over your corpse! It's something I never want to do again!”

Sherlock sighs and lays back, hoping he will storm out and leave her alone until she's in less pain. She can hear him pacing, thinking, seething. But then he stops. Sherlock opens her eyes. He's kneeling at her feet.

“Is that towel clean?” he asks, softly. The nick is on the inside of her thigh, an improbable place as any, but god knows where he was aiming. 

“I think so,” Sherlock says. John frowns.

“Let me see.”

It really isn't a bad wound, more than a scratch, bled quite a bit, but probably won't scar. John sees this immediately, and relaxes, his shoulders drooping, his face wilting. He stares at it, and Sherlock watches as he becomes fully aware of his position, kneeling between her bare legs.

“I don't know what I'd do if I lost you again,” he says, barely audible. 

“Find another hot woman to marry, I'd imagine,” Sherlock says. John doesn't laugh.

He kisses her. 

It's not friendly. It's searing, and unapologetic, and Sherlock can't help it. She kisses him back. Because she loves him, and he cares, he cares too much, and it is their matching, festering flaw.

He grips her thighs and kisses open mouthed along her neck, and then his erection is pressed against the inside of her knee, and Sherlock can't breathe, because she wants to want it, she wants to need his cock and his mouth the way she needs the rest of him, but she doesn't, and the sensation of him against her turns her stomach cold.

“I can't—“ she says as she pushes back, and John is instantly ten feet back from her, apology endlessly toppling from his mouth. 

“It's okay,” she says, because she kissed him back, and John is hardly simple, but that is admittedly a mixed signal. “It's okay, I just can't.”

“I know,” John says, and he sounds more mortified than broken. “I know.”

 

Mary doesn't send flowers. Mary sends cocks.

It's a nice one. Expensive. Sherlock has never owned a dildo, as she has never found them to be particularly exciting masturbatory aides, but on occasion a partner has had one on hand, so to speak. Sherlock enjoys the psychology of being penetrated more than the pure act itself. She enjoys being taken, especially by a person who experiences no pleasure but that of taking another. Shoving a plastic cock in herself is boring. Getting fucked with one is not.

Sherlock assumes the cock is not a masturbatory suggestion, but a token of things to come, and she is correct. When Mary and John arrive at 221B under the pretense of dinner, Mary's leather harness is just barely visible under her gauzy dress. 

John remains bashful after the incident with the bullet graze, but Sherlock kisses him hello, the same as ever, letting her lips linger a moment too long to convey her love, but pulling away before she gives him something she doesn't mean to. John interprets the length of the kiss beautifully, because he is good with things like bodies and feelings, and he smiles at her with something between thankfulness and respect. Sherlock loves him all the more.

Mary invades Sherlock's space on the couch.

“You ever had a girl fuck you with a cock before?”

“Not a strap-on,” Sherlock says.

“Would you like to try?”

Sherlock can only nod. The speed at which Mary can reduce Sherlock to non-verbal is terrifying. John seems far away, in his chair, but he watches them hungrily. Most times he just watches, and Sherlock forgets he's there. Sometimes, if he lasts, he fucks Mary afterward, and Sherlock half pays attention through her post-orgasmic haze. 

“Is the cock too big?” Mary asks.

“It's perfect,” Sherlock says, embarrassed that it only comes out as a whisper.

Mary kisses Sherlock until Sherlock can't breathe. She clings to Mary's neck and steals her oxygen.

“God, I love watching you come apart,” Mary says, quiet enough that only Sherlock can hear it. “Go fetch it, and I'll break you.”

Sherlock nearly sprints from the room, to her bedroom where the pale, long cock is standing on her bedside table like a soldier waiting to be called into action. She grabs it, and then spends far too long debating if she should bring the lubricant too. She never needs it usually, especially not if Mary goes down on her before she puts her fingers inside, but the material of the cock is sticky, and it's fairly large around. Sherlock ends up sticking two fingers inside herself to judge her own wetness, before deciding it's acceptable, and she doesn't mind the pain to begin with.

Back in the living room, John is on the couch. He is nearly naked, and panting into Mary's mouth as she strokes him through his pants. They've never done this, never displayed their foreplay, or put John's arousal before Sherlock's, not that John really has any trouble with arousal in the first place. The whole scene stops Sherlock. Because there's Mary, in a red lace bra and the leather harness, which could not be more arousing, and the look on Mary's face is the one that's usually there when she's taking Sherlock methodically apart with her tongue, but it's for John. Sherlock doesn't mind John's erection, or the face he makes when he comes, overwhelmed and pink. It just falls flat.

Mary notices Sherlock, and pulls her hand away from John. John whines, and his head falls forward, but Mary is already standing, coming towards Sherlock, her hips swaying with seduction.

“I'd like to try something,” Mary says as she begins removing Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock has to put down the dildo to get her sleeve off, and John stares at it, and then at his own cock. Sherlock stifles a giggle. But then Mary is sliding down Sherlock's trousers and caressing Sherlock's tits, and pinching her nipples, and Sherlock doesn't care about cocks anymore. 

“We don't have to if you don't want to,” Mary says. “It doesn't violate the ground rules, but it might put you off.” She bites below Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock goes weak in the knees. “I want to fuck you. On your back, so I can see your face and watch your tits bounce.” Sherlock nods, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with anything Mary has said so far. 

“At the same time, I want John to fuck me from behind. I want to come as hard as I possibly can inside you, and I think that's the best way to do it.”

Sherlock pauses and glances at John, who now has the dildo in his lap to do a side by side comparison. He catches her looking and quickly puts the dildo back with a shy smile. It's an interesting proposition. 

“I don't know,” Sherlock says slowly, because she doesn't. She has no idea how it would feel. It would be as close to sex with John as she would ever get without actually having sex with John. But then the thought of the sounds Mary makes when John fucks her occur, and Sherlock pictures Mary making those sounds, that face, while in Sherlock's arms, while she still tries desperately to fuck Sherlock the best she can, while she fumbles with Sherlock's clit and sinks her teeth into Sherlock's neck and—

“We can start, just you and me,” Mary says. “And if you want to keep it that way, we will.”

Sherlock finds herself nodding as Mary guides her to the couch.

Mary looks better than good with the cock. Sherlock can't control herself, the moment the cock is tight in the ring at the front of the harness, Sherlock is on Mary, sucking her tits, biting her collarbone. And then Sherlock sinks down, intending to lick Mary's clit for a bit, but gets distracted and ends up putting the plastic cock in her mouth until it hits the back of her throat.

“Jesus,” she hears John say. It ruins the moment, because that really is a show, an act that is more exciting for John than it is for either Sherlock or Mary. As subtly as she can, Sherlock pulls off and kisses down to Mary's cunt. It's a bit awkward with the straps of the harness so close to Mary's clit, but Sherlock is a genius, and before long, Mary is coming astoundingly, nearly pulling out Sherlock's hair as she does.

Sherlock is on her back before she realizes what is happening. Mary kneels between her legs, one finger in Sherlock's cunt. 

“You get so wet for me. Just the thought of my cock in you and the taste of me, and you're soaked.” She brings the finger out and offers it to Sherlock, who promptly sucks it into her mouth, her own taste on her tongue, ever so slightly different from Mary's. Mary sighs, heavy with want, and then follows her finger with a sloppy kiss, like she regrets not tasting Sherlock herself. But then the tip of the cock is bobbing against Sherlock's clit, and Mary is caressing Sherlock's cheek like she is gentling a wild animal.

“Are you ready?”

Sherlock tries for an irate “Of course,” but instead just manages a weak nod, her hand grasping for Mary's cock and positioning it just right for Mary to push her way in, achingly slow. It's been a long time since Sherlock had anything but two fingers in her, and the stretch burns, but Mary gasps at Sherlock's wince, and Sherlock knows Mary gets as much from fucking as Sherlock gets from being fucked, and hot arousal spirals out through her until Mary is fully inside her.

They pant at each other, and then Sherlock wraps her legs around Mary's waist, and Mary grabs Sherlock's wrists and pins them above her head, forcefully, stronger than Sherlock has ever thought Mary to be, and Sherlock groans like Mary is splitting her in two.

“Perfect,” Mary breathes. “God, look at you.”

She pulls out, almost all the way, and shoves back in. Sherlock falls to pieces.

Sherlock is barely aware of anything but Mary's cock inside her when Mary bends over, never stopping the steady drag of her hips, and whispers, “I want to take John behind me.”

Sherlock whimpers and kisses Mary, more of a lick on her cheek really, and Mary huffs a laugh and bites Sherlock's jaw and slams her hips into Sherlock, and Sherlock comes, and comes, and comes.

At first, Sherlock doesn't even notice that the pace has changed. Mary begins to moan in a hitching, staccato way in time with her thrusts, and that's what alerts Sherlock to the third body. John's body, she thinks, though it's more of an echo across a lake of ache and pleasure. Mary's thrusts are shallower, and that's when Sherlock notes that they are not Mary's thrusts at all anymore. 

Mary falls forward onto her elbows, releasing Sherlock's wrists, and her breasts graze Sherlock's. With her free hands, Sherlock grabs Mary's face and pulls her down so they can breathe into each other's mouths and lick each other's lips.

Mary's eyes slide shut, and Sherlock can hear John as everything speeds up. She doesn't want to look over Mary's shoulder, but she can picture him, thrusting harder and harder, ramming Mary's hips and causing Mary's cock to jerk in Sherlock's cunt, imprecise and thick and wonderful. He's fucking Mary harder than Mary was fucking Sherlock, and Mary's control is disintegrating. She collapses on Sherlock, and her hands seek out Sherlock's until she can lace their fingers together, too tight, over Sherlock's head. Her lips slide over Sherlock's neck until she is at her ear, and she begins to whisper.

“He's picturing fucking you. He wants to fuck you so bad, and you make so much noise, Sherlock, you come so loudly, and he can picture it now, because he's shutting his eyes and shoving into me, and you're moaning like a whore, but it's not his dick inside you, it's mine. He'll come in a moment, especially if you give him a good, slutty moan, and then he'll pull out and I'll fuck you so hard you'll scream, we'll show him just how good I can fuck you, how hard I can make you come, how nobody can make you come as hard I can. I promise, Sherlock, I promise, I am going to make you come harder than you ever have in your whole life. Come on, Sherlock, show him how pretty you can sound.”

The cock inside Sherlock grazes her G-spot, and like a puppet, Sherlock lets out a mess of a groan, tortured and extravagant. John slams into Mary three times, lets out several huffing vowels, and falls, ever slightly, careful not to crush them.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “Jesus Christ.”

Sherlock can feel when he pulls out. Mary grins down at her.

“You want to stay down there, or you want to be on hands and knees?”

“I'll come harder on hands and knees,” Sherlock says without thinking.

“You're going to—?” John says, somewhere Sherlock can't see him. Maybe he's on the floor. He sounds defeated.

Mary is very gentle when she pulls out of Sherlock. They kiss for a moment, light as air, and Mary strokes Sherlock's hair. 

“You're such a good girl,” Mary whispers into Sherlock's ear. “My good girl.”

Sherlock whimpers. Mary slaps Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock gets on her hands and knees. 

Mary fulfills her promise.

 

Sherlock falls asleep on the couch. When she wakes up, the shower is running, and the kettle is on, and she is wrapped in both a blanket and Mary's arms. 

“Hello, sexy,” Mary says. “You all right? You pretty much passed out there.”

“Mm,” Sherlock says, because she has no idea if she is all right. There was so much data obtained during a time when her brain was so broken that she cannot even begin to parse out what was important and what was just a filthy moment. 

“You might be a bit sore,” Mary says.

“You like that,” Sherlock says. “That I might be a bit sore.”

“Yes,” Mary says. “I like that I made you a bit sore.”

“Mm,” Sherlock says again.

John gets out of the shower, and the kettle goes off. Mary goes to shower, leaving Sherlock on the couch, and John makes tea in his towel. Sherlock gets up, still wrapped in the blanket, and stands in the entrance to the kitchen. John seems to be avoiding her eyes.

“John,” she says.

“Yeah?” He thinks she is about to scold him for acting on his heterosexual desires.

“I think—Mary might not be entirely who she says she is.”

John looks up from the tea, a goofy smile on his face. “What? What do you mean by that?”

“I don't know,” Sherlock says, because she doesn't. “It's not—“ Sherlock can't trust her gut instinct around Mary, and that's all this is. Gut instinct, and one that John will probably trust with his life. “Never mind.” She waves her hand in the air. “Sex madness.”

John laughs and gives her a mug. He knows how she likes it. She kisses him on the cheek and he blushes. 

 

Mary says, “Not one more step, Sherlock, or I will shoot you.”

Sherlock laughs and takes one more step.

 

John comes back to 221B. Just for a little while. Just until they figure out who Mary is and what to do about her. John is hurting, but Sherlock has a healing bullet wound in the middle of her chest, so John doesn't complain to much. He doesn't sleep well, though. Neither of them do. They play a lot of late night Cluedo, which is a fun time for exactly no one.

It's three in the morning. John is near dead with exhaustion. Sherlock is tired of John's exhaustion.

“You miss sleeping beside her,” Sherlock says.

John laughs. “I missed you when I was sleeping beside her.”

“Come sleep beside me, then,” Sherlock says.

John frowns.

“Not sex,” Sherlock says. “It's never going to be sex, John.”

“I know,” John says, but easily, like it hadn't even occurred to him otherwise. “It's just—I don't want your pity.”

Sherlock sighs. “It's not pity. Come on.”

John stands awkwardly by the bed until Sherlock strips off her clothes, leaving her in a pair of men's pants and nothing else. John doesn't look at her tits, but also doesn't not look at her tits. He undresses to his pants too, and they get into bed together. Then Sherlock realizes what John actually wants to look at. She lies on her back and puts his fingertips on the spot where the bullet went in.

“I'm so sorry,” John says.

“For what?” Sherlock says. “You didn't shoot me.”

“That I could never be everything for you.”

Sherlock pauses, and then begins to laugh. 

“What?” John says, obviously offended.

“You are my everything,” Sherlock says. “You must realize that. It's me that can't give you everything that you need.”

John stares at her, and then he begins to laugh too. They spend a good minute laughing half-naked in Sherlock's bed. John lies down beside her.

“What are we going to do?” John asks.

“Not sure,” Sherlock says. “It's a good puzzle though.”

They fall asleep tangled in each other, their fingers laced together to prevent them from drifting apart in the darkness.


End file.
